


Brother's Keeper

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Kent POV, Light Peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 07:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7305178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chandler's team are used to dealing with odd cases and when they start investigating a grave robbery it seems like business as usual. But then the culprit starts to take an interest in the living and it isn't long before the killer has one of the team in mind for his next victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother's Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> Set early in series 4. Minor details of injuries, nowhere near as gruesome as the show.
> 
> Originally posted to Livejournal in 2013.

Being a member of Chandler's team meant that you were exposed to the oddness of Whitechapel more than any other. With that came the real danger that it would all start to seem normal and that would bleed out into their personal lives. Kent's mum already thought that he didn't switch off enough, which was probably true. He should probably be worried about that but somehow he couldn't quite summon up the energy to care.

What he did care about was the fact that he hated the morgue almost as much as he hated hospitals. The fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he'd been in the morgue wasn't the point. The only reason he was there right now was because Chandler and Miles were with the Commander – something was going on way above his pay grade – and he had had the misfortune to take the original call.

He hadn't believed it at first and had made the caller repeat it twice before he was convinced that this wasn't one of Mansell's juvenile pranks. He'd texted Miles to let him know what was happening, and got the okay to take a trip to the morgue, with Riley, who was looking as queasy as he felt.

“So,” said Caroline Llewellyn, looking like she was going to give birth any second, “this is unusual. Where are Chandler and Miles?”

“With the Commander,” Riley answered with a pleasant smile. Kent shifted uncomfortably next to her; being in places that made him uncomfortable, he knew they made him short with people, a habit he didn't try very hard to break and he could feel annoyance at Caroline already welling up, perfectly aware that it wasn't actually her he was annoyed at but finding it hard to stem the emotion all the same.

“Lucky them,” Caroline said. “So, we have here Celia Cryer, aged 35 when she died. She was buried three months ago, dug up again sometime last night, and then her right hand was removed.”

Kent and Riley reluctantly moved closer to the decomposing body. Kent swore, not for the first time, that whatever happened he would definitely be cremated.

“Was it professional?” Kent asked. “The cut?”

“With this much decomp I'd say it wouldn’t have taken much skill to remove the hand, no. I've requested her full medical records, I'll send them up to you when I get them, but there doesn't seem to be anything else missing. Or added.”

Riley and Kent looked at each other and then back at Caroline. Caroline shrugged.

“Well, you never know, do you?”

Kent supposed not, not around here. “Do we know how she died?”

“Heart failure according to the brief notes I've looked at. But...” She moved closer to the body, fingers brushing over where the heart would have been. “I'm going to take another look. 35 is awfully young and maybe her death is connected to why she was dug up.” She looked up at them, determination to solve a mystery written all over her face. “I'll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Riley said and she and Kent headed back upstairs.

“Do you think Mansell's found anything?” he asked. Mansell had headed over to the cemetery, checking for witnesses or if any nearby businesses had useful CCTV footage. Chances were slim though, no one who hung around cemeteries at night was likely to want to talk to the police.

“Fingers crossed,” Riley replied. “We don't have much to go on otherwise.”

Kent silently agreed. It hardly seemed like a crime of the century.

They'd just returned to the empty Incident Room when Miles and Chandler came in the door behind them.

“I was agreeing with you!” Miles was saying, voice expressing more incredulity than actual anger, despite the volume.

“It was the way you were agreeing with me that was the problem,” Chandler said.

Kent and Riley moved quickly to their respective desks. It always made Kent feel uncomfortable when the boss and Skip argued, especially when they both managed to be right, but just in different ways.

Their conversation came to an abrupt halt as they realised they had witnesses.

“All right then,” Miles said, “what's this about a grave robbery?”

“Celia Cryer,” Kent said, “dug up from her grave some time last night – Mansell's checking to find out exactly when,” he hurriedly said, as he saw the question forming on Miles' lips - “and her right hand's been removed. Dr Llewellyn doesn't think it would have taken much.”

“She died of heart failure,” Riley added, “but Llewellyn's checking to make sure.”

“She thinks the coroner made a mistake?” Chandler asked.

“Maybe?” Riley said with a shrug. “Other than that, we're waiting on her full medical records and I thought I'd check, see if she had run ins with the police...” She waved at her computer screen and Chandler nodded.

“Mansell's still at the cemetery?”

“Yes, sir,” said Kent.

“Right.” Chandler stood still for a moment surveying the room. The whiteboard was blank – none of them had thought about updating it yet, not even sure if this was a crime they should, or could, be investigating. Chandler seemed to agree as he didn't start making notes on it like he normally would.

“Maybe we should kick this down to uniform?” Miles suggested. “Get them working on it.”

“No, no,” said Chandler, “we took the call. And it's not like we have anything pressing on at the moment, is it? Kent, go join Mansell, see what you can find out.”

He headed straight over to his office, Miles dogging his heels at every step, so he missed the frustrated glare Kent shot at him. Cemeteries weren't exactly his favourite place either.

* * * * *

The minute Kent arrived at the cemetery he was accosted by a very frustrated looking clergyman.

“Young man, exactly how long is this going to take?”

Kent sighed, not even bothering to ask how he'd been made out as a policeman. “We're doing our best...” he paused, hoping the man would supply his own name.

“Thomas Corden, I work here. At the church,” he added, somewhat unnecessarily Kent thought.

“Right,” Kent said and started to move towards the cemetery.

“It was Celia, wasn't it?”

Kent slowed down. “Celia?”

“I recognised, from the layout, well...” Corden trailed off.

Kent took a second to scope out the landscape for himself. All cemeteries looked roughly the same to him and most of them, particularly in this area, looked unloved and uncared for. From this distance it was impossible to tell exactly which grave the police tent was covering. Judging by experience, it probably covered more than the one they were examining.

“What makes you think that?” Kent asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Well, you see...” he trailed off again. Kent counted to five.

“Did she attend the church?”

“Oh, yes. Well, no.”

Kent found himself wishing he hadn't come alone. “Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable talking inside?”

He followed the vicar into the church, noting with a shiver that churches always felt ten degrees colder than anywhere else. As Corden moved towards his office Kent sent a quick text to Mansell explaining what he was doing and where he was going, just in case Corden turned out to be some sort of weirdo.

“Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Kent said; he never drank anything a potential suspect gave him if he could help it.

Corden sat down then stood up again, motioned for Kent to sit, almost guiding him by the elbow to do so, and then sat down when Kent did. Kent took out his notebook and pen and flipped to a clean page; Corden was starting to make him nervous. But then anything a little out of the ordinary was starting to do that. No, anything out of the ordinary had always done that, but he hadn't noticed it quite so much before. He thought Chandler might have a point, even unspoken, that keeping yourself in order helped with keeping the chaos outside at bay.

“What can you tell me about Celia?” Kent asked, shaking himself out of his thoughts. “There seemed to be some confusion about whether she attended your church?”

“Well, no.”

Kent waited.

“Well, you see...Celia was one of life's floater's.”

Kent waited, but when no explanation seemed forthcoming, decided this was going to be one of the interviews he could look back on and be proud that he kept his temper in check.

“Floaters? How do you mean?”

“She liked to sample lots of different religions. One week Christianity, the next Judaism, then Islam.” He shook his head and laughed as if it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Kent, who could never think about religion without likening it with superstitions and people not asking the right questions, forced himself to smile politely. “I think she even tried Buddhism!” Corden added with a chuckle.

Kent made some sort of scribbled note even he couldn't decipher at that, failing to see the joke.

“Well, so you see, it wasn't really any surprise.”

“Her body being dug up?” Kent asked, confused.

“No, no, her suicide.”

“She killed herself? I thought it was heart failure.”

“Oh, well, he would say that, wouldn't he. I mean, far be it for me to speak ill of the dead, and of course the sanctity of the church is sacrosanct, of course...”

Corden trailed off and Kent took the opportunity to scribble down a description of the man sitting in front of him. Tall, receding hairline of more grey than black, thin hooked nose, pale skin with just a shadow of a beard attempting to fight it's way out.

“ _He_ would say that?” Kent asked, focusing on what he thought most pertinent.

“Well, Celia’s husband. He never blamed himself of course, and really, why should he?”

Kent nodded slowly; clearly Corden thought that's exactly what Celia's husband should have been doing.

“What _did_ he say?”

“That she was depressed, of course. They all are these days, aren't they?”

Kent raised a curious eyebrow.

“Women. Depressed about this and that. Her weight, probably. She was very...large.”

Kent was very glad that Riley wasn't here to hear this. Or Mansell, though for different reasons.

“How did she do it?”

“Poison, I think. Overdose of some kind. He was a vet you see. Kept things lying around. His sort do.”

Kent had no idea what sort Corden meant, and he really wasn't interested in hearing about it.

“And you suspected her grave was going to be tampered with?” Kent asked the typically obtuse question, and kept his expression open hoping, as it usually did, that it would elicit an immediate and honest answer.

“Well, no, not in so many words, but I always thought it strange. That he never came to visit the grave. I suppose some people don't. With suicides. Of course, we don’t stop them being buried in consecrated ground these days...” Corden leaned forward and Kent fought the urge to flinch, “...but she was tucked up in a corner. So, you see, God's will at work.”

Kent didn’t think it had anything to do with God, but wisely refrained from commenting. He made a few notes and then abruptly stood up.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Corden. You've been really helpful.” He winced a little, sounding insincere to his own ears, but Corden didn't seem to notice.

“Always happy to help the police. You can find your own way out?”

“Yes, that's fine,” Kent said, glad to get away. He nodded once more and then made himself walk calmly out of the church. He paused to look up at the stained glass window, the inscription underneath too far away for him to clearly make out what was being depicted. It seemed a nice church, though like so many others these days, completely deserted.

Outside the weather had taken a turn for the worse and spots of rain were staring to appear. He found Mansell sitting inside his own car, eating a sandwich. Kent's stomach rumbled; he could do with some food himself.

“Have a nice chat?” Mansell asked, winding down the window a little as Kent drew nearer.

Kent pulled a face. “I wouldn't put it like that. Had some things to say about the victim though.” He moved around the car and opened the door to sit in the passenger seat, warming hands he now realised were numb with cold, on Mansell's heater. He filled Mansell in and then listened as Mansell detailed the things he'd found. Or rather hadn't.

“No CCTV anywhere. No witnesses. Some fresh flowers on a couple of nearby graves, I took a photo of them, in case we can track the relatives, see if they saw anything suspicious.” He took a bite of his sandwich and the next few words were muffled, though Kent had got used to deciphering that by now. “Maybe it's just a bloody stupid prank?”

Kent shrugged. “It's still a crime.”

Mansell snorted. “I'm heading back.”

Kent grumbled but got the message and moved over to his own car. Well, the one he borrowed every so often, after Chandler made an off-hand comment about his scooter that cut deeper than he liked to admit.

And the rain kept on coming.

* * * * *

When they arrived back at the Incident Room it was to find Buchan, somewhat inevitably, expanding on the Burke and Hare case.

“...of course neither Burke nor Hare had a criminal record before they started on their horrendous acts and their murders were financially motivated primarily; anatomical study was really secondary, though of course they removed the entire body and certainly didn't leave...scraps...behind...”

“This isn't the same,” Miles said, voice raised in the perfect pitch to talk over Buchan but still let everyone hear what Buchan was saying. Kent wondered idly if he perfected that technique on his kids at home.

“...Mary Paterson's body was preserved for months before...”

“Ed, please,” Chandler said. His voice was quieter than Miles' but it seemed to penetrate Buchan's consciousness more than anyone else's. Kent supposed that was because Chandler was the only one he really wanted to impress, the rest of them were just window dressing.

“There's been another one,” Riley said when she spotted Kent and Mansell. “Male this time.”

The three of them exchanged weary looks. A prank was looking less and less likely.

“Medical student hijinks?” Buchan suggested lightly.

Chandler slowly shook his head and Miles launched himself straight at Mansell and Kent, demanding answers. They filled him in on what they'd found out.

“Think he's a suspect, this Corden?” Miles asked.

Kent shrugged. “Bit weird, but seemed mostly harmless.”

“They usually do,” Buchan interjected. “That's how they get you.”

Everyone turned to Buchan with the same expression on their faces. Buchan got the message.

“I'll be...downstairs.” He sidled past Kent who tried to look reassuring but felt like he was failing as Buchan only looked sadly at him.

“Right, let's get some information up on the board,” Chandler said.

“I'll do it,” Kent volunteered. He found it soothing, in his own way, to see his thoughts laid out in the methodical way Chandler liked and he thought it might help him warm up a little; the heater in his rented car was pretty temperamental. Chandler just nodded and left him to it, telling the team he and Miles would be in the morgue if they were needed.

“Do you think it is just that, grave robbing?” Mansell asked, distaste plain on his features.

“Body snatching, technically,” Riley corrected. “Though why anyone would take only part of a body...What am I saying? Why anyone would dig up a body in the first place....” She shuddered and moved over to the kettle. “Drinks?”

“Yes please,” the two men said in unison. Kent felt the need to glare at Mansell, who only grinned back at him. The man could be infuriating sometimes and though Kent told himself that he shouldn’t let Mansell get to him, he always did.

“This new one - exactly the same as the other, right hand missing?” Mansell asked. Kent looked over to see Riley nod and that Mansell was searching the cupboards for Miles' hidden stash of biscuits. Which reminded him that he still hadn't eaten yet.

“Riley, you eaten?” he asked. She shook her head as she poured out the tea. “All right.” He finished up writing on the board. “Five minutes,” he told her and hurried out of the room. There was a Tesco Express not too far away and he already knew by now what she would and wouldn’t accept. On a whim he decided to get something for Miles and Chandler too and, despite his better judgement, something for Mansell and a couple of packets of biscuits for the whole team.

By the time he got back his tea was at just the right temperature and Riley was suitably grateful that she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Mansell grinned at them but remained blissfully silent, and started to tuck into his second helping of sandwiches that lunchtime with an appreciative nod in Kent's direction. Kent set Miles and Chandler's lunch down on their respective desks and then sat at his own. As he ate he logged into the police database and started a search on Thomas Corden.

They worked in fairly companionable silence. His colleagues could drive him up the wall at times, but they'd all seen a lot of horrible things together and there was a shared bond there that couldn't be broken. Didn’t mean he couldn't happily strangle Mansell, mind you.

“I'm not finding anything suspicious in Cryer's background,” Riley said after about ten minutes. “The odd parking ticket here and there, but nothing else.” She sounded pretty disappointed.

“Corden checks out too,” Kent said, hearing the same disappointment in his own voice. Some days it would be nice if a suspect just jumped off the page at them.

Mansell pushed himself away from his desk, the chair screeching against the floor just as Chandler and Miles returned; Chandler's flinch was barely hidden.

“All right,” Miles said quickly, covering up any discomfort on Chandler's part, “victim number 2 has had his right hand removed, same deal as the first one. Name's Jeff Sanders, 42, plumber. Died in a car accident a month ago.”

As he talked Chandler took the pen Kent offered him and started scribbling details onto the whiteboard.

“Llewellyn thinks the removal was done with a hacksaw of some kind, small, portable, easily hidden.” Chandler stared at the board, as if he'd forgotten the others were even there.

Miles coughed, and when that didn't elicit a response, just shook his head and started talking. “Interesting thing is it happened about a week before Cryer's body was disturbed, but no one noticed.”

“How do you not notice a grave's been dug up?” Riley asked.

“Budget cuts, apparently. Council only send someone in once a week to trim the grass a bit.” Miles went over to his desk, noticed the sandwiches and started to eat. “Who do I have to thank for this?” he asked around a mouthful, ignoring the stiffening of Chandler's shoulders.

Kent raised his hand. “There's one for you too, sir, on your desk,” he said to Chandler. Chandler nodded but it was obvious he wasn't really listening.

“Technically Cryer is the second victim,” he said instead.

They all looked at the board. It was obvious Chandler was itching to scrub it all off and rewrite it so it was in the correct order. Kent stood up.

“We can just...move the boards around,” he suggested, smiley hopefully.

Chandler seemed to sigh with relief. “Right, yes, let's...”

Together they quickly moved the boards so that they showed up in the correct order. Chandler shot Kent a grateful look and then stood back to take in the boards.

“We don't have enough information.”

Miles shrugged. “Maybe it is just some stupid prank. We should check with the local hospitals, morgues, see if they’ve heard anything.”

“Good idea,” Chandler said. “Kent, Riley, Mansell...”

The three of them were already putting on their coats.

“Don’t worry, we're on it, sir,” Riley said for them. They all headed towards the door.

“Oh, Kent?” Chandler called, just before he left.

“Sir?”

“Thank you for the sandwich.”

Kent felt himself straighten up, and derided himself as pathetic even as he tried to indicate with a twitch of his shoulders that it was nothing. He hurried after Mansell and Riley before he managed to embarrass himself any more.

* * * * *

If it was a prank, no one was talking to the police. There were no reports of hands appearing on campuses or in medical labs and all the cadavers they'd examined (and there had been a lot) were fully intact where they should have been. By the time they'd decided to call it a day all three of them were tired and cold and really looking forward to a good night's sleep. Naturally, Riley's phone call ruined that for them.

Mansell and Kent waited while she talked to Miles, moving up and down and rubbing their hands exaggeratedly, trying to regain some feeling into cold limbs. By the expression on Riley’s face, it was obvious they weren't going to be heading somewhere warm any time soon.

“There's a body,” Riley explained as she got off the phone. “Woman found in her house by her daughter.”

“Yeah, so?” Mansell asked. Kent rolled his eyes.

“Her right hand has been cut off.”

“Oh,” Mansell said, face dropping. “Great.”

* * * * *

When they arrived at the woman's house they were met by the usual well organised chaos of a crime scene. SOCO were moving about with purpose and uniform were keeping any gawkers away, though that seemed to be restricted to a couple of kids on bikes and an old man in a raincoat.

Miles spotted them as they arrived and shouted out of a top floor window for them to come on up.

When they got there they found the woman was being cut down from the ceiling where she'd apparently hanged herself. They'd passed her daughter, a young woman with mascara scrubbed all over her tear stained face giving a statement to a uniform who nodded hello at them. Kent had felt something unclench at that – since the Kray's there'd been a strained relationship between their team and the rest of the station. It had slowly got better, oddly enough Morgan's death had helped with that, and it seemed like they weren't viewed as quite the oddballs as they had been before, though that wasn't necessarily saying much. Now if only they could bring in a murderer alive and they'd be all set.

“Name's Lindsey Forrest, 52, secretary at an investment firm in the City. Daughter says she wasn't depressed but there is a suicide note.”

Chandler held up an evidence bag with the note inside. Kent frowned at it.

“Not handwritten? That's odd.”

Chandler nodded at him. “Yes, it is. The language doesn't sound right either. There's a bit about her life not going as she'd expected and then,” he held it up to the light so he could better quote from it,

> “I falter where I firmly trod,  
>  And falling with my weight of cares  
>  Upon the great world's altar-stairs  
>  That slope thro' darkness up to God,
> 
> I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,  
>  And gather dust and chaff, and call  
>  To what I feel is Lord of all,  
>  And faintly trust the larger hope.”

Kent and Mansell exchanged equally baffled looks and then stared down at the woman. Dr Llewellyn was examining her, but paused to look up at Chandler as if he were an interesting specimen she'd like to examine under a microscope.

“It's Tennyson,” Chandler said, in that tone he reserved for his team when he felt they were failing to live up to his expectations of them. “From _In Memoriam.”_

“Brilliant, suicide by poetry,” Miles muttered, none too quietly. Chandler shot him an annoyed look.

“It doesn't fit with the victim profile,” he said. “Look at this room, this house...these books.” He pointed to a bookshelf next to the bed – it was full of what looked like autobiography's of X-Factor winners, movie stars and soap actors. Not a poetry book in sight.

“Maybe she wanted to go out of the world with a bit of class?” Mansell suggested. “That's what I'd do.”

Kent wondered if his sister ever saw him in moments like this. “Any time you feel like it,” he said, “go ahead.”

Mansell pulled a face at him and Miles moved towards the body, barging between Kent and Mansell. Kent avoided looking at Chandler, certain he already knew what his expression was going to be.

“Well?” Miles asked Llewellyn.

“Chandler's right,” she said. Miles gave her his hand and helped her get back to her feet. She rubbed at her belly as she started to talk. “This woman's neck was broken _before_ the rope was put around it.” She indicated the body. “Clear fingermarks around the neck. And,” she paused and the team unconsciously all leaned in a little closer, “she was alive when her hand was removed.”

“Of course she was,” Miles muttered. He turned around to face the team, looking like he was thoroughly disgusted with the world. Or maybe just them.

Kent felt the familiar tug in his stomach but he was better at controlling it now. No one took any notice of Chandler's fiddling with the collar around his neck.

“Right, well, Kent, why don’t you and Riley canvas the neighbours, see if they saw or heard anything. Mansell, I want you back at the station, pull up everything you can on our three victims. They must have something more in common than their hands missing. Why has he started killing, why now?” The last question seemed not to be directed at any of them in particular, so they ignored it in favour of heading off as he'd directed them. Mansell muttered under his breath that Kent was better at the paperwork than him, to which Kent silently agreed; either he or Chandler would end up rearranging it so it made more sense to everyone who wasn't Mansell anyway.

“Oh, just bugger off and get it done,” Riley said. There was little heat to her words and Mansell only grinned and saluted them as he left.

“Right or left?” Kent asked.

Riley looked up and down the road. Both sides looked equally depressing. “Left, and work our way back?”

“As good a plan as any,” Kent agreed. He reached for his notebook and took out a brand new pencil. It was going to be a long night.

* * * * *

The canvassing of the area where Forrest had been killed hadn't yielded any results. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything, nobody knew anything. After writing up what statements they had Chandler had let them all go home and get some sleep.

It was well after 11pm by the time Kent got back to his flat. The lights were all off which meant his room-mates were out – they all worked various shifts but they usually left the landing light on if they were in but asleep, so whoever came after would know how much noise they could make.

After making sure the door was bolted (he'd insisted on adding two more to the ones they'd had already after the Kray's incident, and no one had raised any objections) he headed towards the kitchen and peered into the fridge. At one point they'd all pooled their resources to keep the fridge stocked, but that had started proving completely impracticable so now they each had a shelf but were happy to share as long as food was replaced. At this moment Kent's shelf contained some mouldy cheese, which he threw out, a tub of margarine and a packet of ham. He made a mental note to do some shopping the next day and snagged a yoghurt from one of his room-mates shelves; he wasn't all that hungry anyway.

He sat and ate at the kitchen counter, flicking the news on and then off again when he saw footage of the crime scene pop up. He found it better not to watch the news when they were working on a case; if it wasn't spotting himself in the background, which always resulted in a call from his mum and his sister, then he was getting annoyed at the speculation the newsreader peddled out as fact.

Finally he headed up to bed, remembered to put his suit neatly back on its hanger and fell into his usual fitful sleep.

* * * * *

6am came far too soon. Kent ended up waiting ten minutes to use the bathroom and then grabbing a quick shower. His room-mate Becky had toast and tea waiting for him when he got downstairs.

“What's this in aid of?”

She pointed towards the TV and the news on yesterday’s killing. Thankfully they didn't seem to be connecting it with the disturbed graves. “I recognised your boss. Sounds horrible.”

“Yeah,” Kent agreed. “I better head in.” He finished off the toast in a few bites and downed the tea in one. “Thanks for that.” He started to head out and then turned back quickly, “Oh, I owe you a yoghurt. I'll go shopping later.”

“I'll believe that when I see it,” Becky replied. Kent had a sinking feeling she was probably right.

* * * * *

When Kent got to the office no one else was in. It wasn't completely unusual, but he would normally expect to see at least Chandler in his office by now. Not sure exactly what compelled him, he headed downstairs to the Archives, to see if Buchan was in yet.

The Archives were as chaotic as ever, even more so now that Buchan was mould hunting. Books, box files and loose pieces of paper were everywhere. Buchan claimed he could lay his hand on anything he wanted, which was probably just as well, because no one else seemed able to fathom his system.

Buchan was sat in the middle of the room, his glasses perched on his forehead, his head angled up to the ceiling although his eyes were closed. Kent was about to turn around, wary of disturbing the other man, when Buchan opened his eyes and stared right at Kent.

“Ah, young Kent. How may I help you?”

“Um, I was just...” Kent looked around the room. “You're in early.”

“I haven't left.”

Kent tried not to look too surprised. “You've been here all night?”

“Yes.” Buchan looked down at the books laid out in front of him. “I felt like I should...”

Kent liked Buchan, but he didn't think it was helpful, or useful, for him to blame himself every time their investigations hit a dead end. He was supposed to be helping them do their jobs, not doing it for them.

“You should get some rest. We don't want you wearing yourself out.”

“No, we don't,” Chandler agreed. Kent jumped, he hadn't heard the DI approaching behind him. “Sorry,” Chandler whispered. “You're in early.”

“Thought I'd take another look at the victims and see if anything jumps out about why they were chosen.”

Chandler nodded. “Good idea. Lindsey Forrest's daughter is coming in later. I thought it might be better if we talked to her properly here, when she's a bit calmer.”

A bit less of a mascara'd mess is what he meant, but Kent didn't comment on it.

“Actually I've been thinking about that,” Buchan said, pointing at Kent. “A link I mean. Here.” He turned one of the books he had been studying around so that Kent and Chandler could get a better look. They both leaned forward. The picture was of a hand, its fingers curled towards itself, with a lit candle coming out of the top.

“A Hand of Glory?” Chandler asked. Kent gave him a look out of the corner of his eye – he was constantly amazed at how much random information the DI could seemingly pull out of thin air, and how easily he kept up with Buchan.

“Exactly!” Buchan said. He smiled at Chandler as if he were a pupil about to be moved to the top of the class. “In 1440 the report from a coroner's inquest in Maidstone talks about removing the arm of a dead man that has lain in the earth nine days and nine nights and placing a candle in its hand. And wherever you have done this, the occupants of the house, or shop, or tavern, will be asleep and you may do with them and their property, as you will.”

Kent frowned. “But they were dead longer than nine days, and they weren't robbed.”

Buchan looked momentarily wrong-footed. “Traditionally hands of glory were made from the corpses of murderers, perhaps you could start looking into the victims' pasts?”

“We already have done,” Chandler said. “No, no, I don't think you're on the right track at all. We haven’t been able to find the hands, for one thing.” He looked frustrated and closed the book Buchan had been showing them. “Why change from digging up corpses to killing? What is the killer after? What do they need that they can no longer get from the dead?”

He shook his head and drifted out of the room without a backwards glance. Although used to it by now, Kent was increasingly finding it annoying, the way Chandler would suddenly revert back into his own world that none of them could hope to reach.

“Right,” said Buchan, awkwardly. “Back to the drawing board then.”

Kent left him to it, remembering to wish him luck as he left. He was pretty sure Buchan didn't hear him.

* * * * * *

By the time lunch came around a headache was forming right in the middle of Kent's forehead and all the information he was staring at seemed to be bleeding into one large, useless mess. Buchan had wandered in twenty minutes ago and was talking to Riley about something or other but Kent hadn't been paying too much attention. Mansell had gone on a lunch run before that and hadn't been heard of since. Miles was looking up from his own work and glaring every so often at Mansell's desk; Kent just kept his head down and carried on.

“All right,” Chandler said, suddenly coming out of his office. “What have we got?” He stopped by Mansell's desk. “Where's Mansell?”

“Good bloody question,” Miles said.

Chandler paused to observe Miles expression, and then clearly decided to just move on. “I'm sure we can get on without him for the moment. Kent – what have you got?”

“Not much.” He turned around in his chair and pointed at the furthest whiteboard he'd been scribbling on, directly behind his desk. “I haven't been able to find a single link between the victims. They had different friends, worked in different areas, different social lives. There's nothing to indicate they knew each other.”

“I might have something though,” Riley said. She moved around Buchan and towards the whiteboard. “I had a chat with the original investigating officer on the Sanders case. Coroner actually recorded a narrative verdict. Although he did die in a car accident, there was enough eyewitness testimony to suggest that he deliberately drove into a tree.”

“Suicide...” Chandler murmured.

Riley handed over the newspaper article which talked a little about the case and Chandler stuck it onto the board next to the background information on Sanders.

“Reverend Corden said Celia Cryer probably killed herself,” Kent said. “And...” he rifled through some of the paperwork on his desk, “she was in the paper too.” He handed her obituary over to Chandler who added it to the board.

“And they made Lindsey Forrest's death _look_ like a suicide,” Chandler murmured. He took a few steps back from the board, trying to see everything in perspective. “But why?”

“I think I might be able to help with that,” Buchan said quietly. “If I may?” He looked towards Chandler for permission and Chandler, after a brief moment's hesitation, nodded.

Buchan stepped forward and added a couple of items to the board. They were printed illustrations of hangings. One of them depicted a woman being held up by two others while a man being hanged pressed his right hand against her chest. Kent wondered idly just how disturbing this explanation was going to get.

“Here we have the hanging of a man in Newgate Prison in 1814. See his right hand? Pressed against a sick woman in order to cure her of her illness.” He paused, smiled at the team and then plunged on. “In the days of public hangings hangmen could easily earn a substantial amount by allowing the sick to be touched by the dead man's hand.”

“The first two weren't hanged though,” Kent pointed out.

“No, indeed, but belief persisted for those who committed suicide as well. And...perhaps the third victim wasn't murdered, but executed?”

“Lots of ancient belief systems tell tales of a healing touch,” Chandler mused.

Buchan nodded. “In 1628 a Catholic Priest who had been executed for his faith in Lancashire had his right hand removed after death and it was said to cure the sick for many centuries afterwards.”

“All right,” Miles interrupted, before Buchan gave them any more examples to contemplate, “say the killer is removing hands to cure himself, or someone else. Why switch from digging up corpses to doing his own dirty work?”

“Well the cure wouldn’t have worked, would it?” Kent asked. “So maybe he thought a fresh victim would help?”

Chandler nodded. “But of course that's not going to work either, so what does he do then? Change his victim profile? Change the method of killing? We still have far too many variables. _And_ we don't know how they caught the killer's eye.”

“Think I can help with that one, Boss,” Mansell said, striding into the room.

Miles waylaid him before he could join the others. “And where have you been?”

“Following a hunch, Skip,” Mansell said. He tried to step around Miles but Miles wasn’t having any of it.

“There's a chain of command here, if you hadn't noticed. You go off on your own I need to know where you're going. Got it?”

“All right, chill,” Mansell replied. He moved around Miles who this time let him pass. Chandler observed the exchange silently.

“What did you find?” Riley asked.

“This.” Mansell put a picture up on the whiteboard, underneath Lindsey Forrest's name. It was crooked and roughly torn and as Mansell spoke Chandler couldn't help but straighten it out. “There was a bit of a to do last week at Lindsey's work when the managing director caught his wife and Lindsey in bed together.” Mansell's wide grin faded a little when Riley hit him over the head. “Oi! All right, so, big scandal, got a lot of press coverage, and that's the picture of Lindsey that they kept using.”

Something about the photo rang a bell with Kent and as Mansell finished his explanation he turned back to his computer and started typing in a few commands. Chandler noticed the motion and leaned over to see what Kent was doing.

“I've seen that picture before,” Kent explained. “Yeah, here it is.”

“What site is that?”

“Choir members at St Catherine's – where Celia Cryer's body was buried.”

Chandler and Kent exchanged looks. “There's a link to two of the three...” Chandler said.

“Hang on,” Riley said. She hurried back to her desk and began upending files onto the floor. Chandler audibly sighed. “Here. Sanders wasn't a member of St Catherine's, but he was a member of a choir at St Mary Magdalene and around six months ago they had some sort of choir X-Factor thing.” She waved vaguely at the flyer in her hand. “Which was held at St Catherine's.”

“Celia's obituary talked about her love of singing. Maybe that's why she attended the church – to sing in the choir too?” Kent suggested, pointing at the newspaper on the board.

“Three for three,” Chandler said. “We've got our link.”

The phone on Miles' desk rang before Chandler could say any more. They all watched with some trepidation as Miles answered it.

“Yeah...Where?....When?...On our way.” He slammed the phone down. “We've got another one. Body washed up by Tower Bridge.”

“All right, Miles and I will go to the crime scene. Riley – Lindsey Forrest's daughter should be on her way, could you?” Riley nodded. “Kent, Mansell, go have a chat with this Reverend at St Catherine's. See if any of his parishioners are notably sick, anything that stands out.”

“Should we bring him in?” Kent asked.

“No, not yet, talk to him at the church. Keep it low key, no need to make him think that he's a suspect.”

“But he is, yeah?” Mansell asked.

“Right now, everybody's a suspect,” Chandler replied.

* * * * * *

The car park was deserted save for a solitary white van with a plumber's logo on the side when Kent and Mansell arrived at the church. They headed towards the front door, which was locked. Kent remembered seeing a side door open from his previous visit and motioned for Mansell to follow him around the side of the building. That door proved to be unlocked and they walked on inside.

“Reverend Corden?” Kent called out. “It's DC Kent, Whitechapel Police.” There was no response save the echo of his own voice coming back at him. He and Mansell looked at each other and sighed. “We can't look around without a search warrant,” Kent said.

“It's a church,” Mansell said. “People are supposed to be allowed inside. This his office?” Mansell asked even as he moved towards the half open door.

“Yeah,” Kent said, not feeling right about it. He supposed it was okay as long as they didn't remove anything that might be evidence.

He followed Mansell into the room. The chairs were still shifted to the same angles as they had been when he'd last been there. Religious artefacts and pictures filled the walls and shelves next to a desk that only had a phone, a pad of paper and a photograph of Corden with another male on it. Kent thought back to his meeting. He hadn't expected much from the reverend and had been more interested in getting away once it was clear that Corden wasn't going to be too much help. But maybe he'd been too quick to dismiss the other man. What if he'd had the killer in his sights all along?

“Quite a collection,” Mansell said. He pointed towards the bookshelves behind Kent.

Kent moved forward to have a closer look. Now that he thought about it, Corden hadn't been terribly keen on him looking at this part of his office, steering him exactly the way he wanted him; Kent hadn't been terribly concerned about the man so hadn't made any objections. Another if only moment.

Mansell was right, it was certainly an interesting collection of books. The Bible was obvious, but then there was _The Lord of the Rings_ , _Wuthering Heights_ , _Frankenstein_ , _Anna Karenina, In Memoriam, The Hound of the Baskervilles, Sense and Sensibility, Dorian Gray....._

“ _In Memoriam,_ ” Kent said. He knelt down so he could see the copy clearly. All the books except that one were covered in dust. “Isn't that...”

“Same as Lindsey Forrest's suicide note,” Mansell finished. “I'm going to call this in.”

Kent nodded as Mansell fumbled with his phone behind him.

“No signal,” Mansell said. “Walls probably too thick. I'll be just outside. Don’t touch anything.”

Kent stood up and glared at Mansell's retreating back. As if he was the one who needed to be reminded of that.

He heard Mansell leave and started to move around the office, seeing if there was anything else in plain sight that might explain just what was going on. Was Corden the killer, or was it just that the church had an open door policy – meaning anyone could walk in off the street? If Corden _was_ the killer, what was his motive? A sick relative? Was he sick himself? Did he think that he was doing God's will? Kent thought back to Lindsey Forrest's supposed suicide note _I falter where I firmly trod_ was he taking about Lindsey – was this a hate crime? Or was he talking about himself? Was he trying to atone for something? Kent shook his head. Like Chandler had said, they still had too many variables and not enough solid facts. What he wouldn’t give for a solid fact right now.

He froze and cocked his head to one side. He had been certain that he had heard something. The sound came again and this time Kent was certain he wasn't imagining things. He moved towards the office door and peered outside. There didn't appear to be anyone in the church. He took a few more tentative steps forward.

“Mansell, is that you?” No response. He looked towards the side door, it was loosely closed but he could just make out Mansell's figure as he obviously paced up and down outside. “Whitechapel Police, if anyone's there, you need to come out right now.” He moved closer to the middle of the church, keeping his senses alert. He stopped suddenly as he saw a figure lying down by the altar. “Hello?” he asked, and shook his head at himself for it.

He was about to move forward when there was another sound, this time from behind him. Before he could turn around or call out, the world was one bright light of pain and then everything went dark.

* * * * *

When Kent woke up it was to find that his earlier headache had morphed into a pulsating ache around his head and shoulders. And he was tied to a chair. He tried to move his arms but that only made the ache in his shoulders worse so he soon stopped. He actually couldn't believe that the thought was forming but he hoped that Mansell, wherever he was, was okay.

His vision began to swim as he tried to work out exactly where he was. There was a light bulb directly above his head but it didn’t cast much light, and most of the room he was in was bathed in shadows. Strange shadows that looked unnervingly like medical equipment and a surgical table with something lying on it that he couldn't quite make out. The smell of bleach was almost overpowering. It was every horror movie nightmare he'd ever had.

“You're awake,” a familiar voice said and then Thomas Corden appeared in front of him. He was wearing a long white lab coat and surgical gloves.

“Where...” Kent coughed and tried again, his throat parched dry. “Where am I?”

Corden didn't reply but tried to make Kent drink. Kent refused as much as he was able and water merely cascaded down his chin and neck and onto his clothing.

“Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful hands?” Corden asked. Kent's right hand reflexively twitched. Llewellyn's words about Lindsey Forrest being alive when her hand was removed rattled around his head.

“I noticed them the first time we met. When you were writing so diligently in your notebook. You can tell a lot about a person from their hands.” Corden showed Kent his own hand's, as he peeled off the gloves. “My own won't be much use soon. Arthritis.”

He moved away into the shadows and Kent heard a tap turning and water cascading onto metal.

“Is that why you're doing this?” Kent asked. “To cure yourself?”

“Cure myself? What are you talking about?”

“Well, that's what we...” Kent stuttered to a stop. Corden had come back into the light and was holding a hacksaw that he was wiping dry with a tea towel.

“Do you want to see him?”

“Him?” Kent asked. He didn't have time to ask anything else as Corden stepped forward and moved Kent's chair around so that he was facing a bed with someone lying on it. Even if the smell of dirt and rot hadn't indicated it, it was pretty clear that whoever was lying there was dead, and had been for some time. And that his right hand was missing.

“What do you think?” Corden asked. Kent was having a hard time thinking of anything at all. He had no idea where he was and nor did his team. And he could now safely say that Corden most definitely fitted into the weirdo category.

“Well, he's um...” He tried to shrug or get his thoughts in order. If Chandler were here he'd know what to say. Chandler was surprisingly good in situations like these. Kent just felt hopelessly out of his depth. Mad people freaked him out in a way he knew he barely contained from anyone else.

“This is Jacob. My brother.” He moved over to the body and gently stroked what hair there was still left. Kent tried not to gag.

“Hello?” Kent suggested, wondering what response Corden could possibly want from him.

Corden glared at him. “He can't answer back, he's dead.”

Kent nodded. “Of course.”

“It's important, for a body to be whole when it passes on, don't you think?”

Kent's thoughts turned to the people for whom that was no longer going to be true, including himself if he wasn't careful. “I suppose so.”

“He didn’t want to be an organ donor because he didn't want to be defiled like that. And then this happened.” He pointed towards the missing hand. “Industrial accident they called it. As if that made it all right. And then the coroner lost the hand. How do you lose a hand?” Corden raised his voice and Kent jerked at the sound, sending more pain down his neck.

“You're trying to put him together again?” Kent slowly asked.

“Yes. It came to me in a dream. _So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasped no more_...”

“Tennyson?” Kent asked. Corden nodded but it was as if he was a long way away, and Kent's words could barely touch him. Kent continued to try and get his hands free.

“I thought if I replaced the hand with one that had been dead for the same amount of time, it wouldn't matter. But it didn't work. And then I thought it needed to be a woman, yin and yang, you see.” Corden said desperately, moving closer to Kent's face. Kent tried not to draw attention to his hands.

“And then?” he asked. “When that didn't work?”

“I didn't mean to kill Lindsey. It was her husband I was waiting for. He owned the factory where my brother was killed. It was his fault Jacob died, do you see? He needed to pay. An eye for an eye. A hand for a hand. I thought that was what God was waiting for. But then she started crying, telling me about this woman she was in love with. How her life was a mess. She had lost her way. And it was clear to me then, that by setting her back on Heaven’s path, I could save her and my brother. It was all so clear to me.”

Kent felt the hairs on the back of his arms and neck stand on end. At first he thought it was because of the manic look in Corden's eye but then he saw movement reflected behind him in some of the medical equipment next to Jacob Corden's body and realised it was because the door behind them had been opened.

“But you still killed her husband,” Chandler said. Kent had never been more relieved, nor more worried, to hear his DI's voice.

“Retribution is just,” Corden said, not seeming surprised to find Chandler had found them.

“DC Kent hasn't done anything worthy of retribution,” Chandler said. Kent heard him moving closer into the room and wondered what he'd said to Miles to let him come inside.

“But his hands. They're the perfect match for Jacob's. He doesn’t need two.”

Kent found himself drawing in a sharp breath at that.

“Stay where you are!” Corden suddenly yelled. “Keep back!” He grabbed Kent by the hair and pulled him closer, the hacksaw moving towards Kent's neck. “Keep back!”

“Boss!” Miles shouted from the doorway. Kent's head was turned now in such a way that he couldn’t make out what was happening but he heard footsteps slowly retreating. Chandler didn’t leave the room, but he had moved further away from them.

“How will you know if it works?” Kent managed to ask, his throat hurting even more than before and the pain in his head was now so excruciating that lights were fluttering before him. Corden pushed him roughly away and the hacksaw caught at Kent's shoulder, making him hiss.

“God will tell me.”

Corden moved over to Jacob's body again and Kent continued to work at releasing himself. He could feel the rope loosening, but it wasn't happening nearly fast enough.

“Don't you think you've sacrificed enough?” Chandler asked. “Surely your brother wouldn't have wanted this?”

“Sacrifice. Yes, sacrifice. Perhaps that's what I was missing,” Corden murmured to himself. He took a step towards Kent who shivered and very much wanted to be anywhere but there. The next thing he knew was that Chandler was shouting and he was closing his eyes as Corden moved the hacksaw towards his own hand.

* * * * *

Kent kept his eyes closed right up until Riley gave him a hug and told him it was all right. When he did open them he saw SOCO moving around Corden's obviously dead body and blood coating the walls and, as he could feel even if he couldn’t see, himself.

“You're all right,” Riley kept repeating, rubbing his arms gently to help get the circulation back into them. His headache was still there, but seemed less insistent and more like it was settled in for the long haul.

Miles and Chandler were off in a corner talking until they turned to Kent, who turned away from them in favour of Riley who had now been given the okay by SOCO to cut Kent out of the rope. He cried out as the rope was removed and Riley winced.

“Sorry, sorry, won't be a sec,” she murmured.

Chandler moved over to them and knelt down. “We're going to get you to hospital as soon as we can.”

Kent wanted to object but then, on a second glimpse at Corden's body, decided it was probably a good idea after all.

* * * * *

It all got a bit hazy after that. He didn’t think he needed to stay in overnight but the doctors, and Miles, had been adamant that he did. His sister visited and pressed a kiss to his forehead, telling him she wished he'd be more careful. Mansell visited too, apologising for not having stopped Corden. He talked about the door being slammed locked and another entrance they hadn't known about; backup that took forever to arrive; the van driving off and nearly taking him out too. When Mansell left Kent saw his sister waiting for him, and that they held hands as they walked off. He let sleep take him after that.

When he woke up again it was to find Chandler in the chair next to his bed, reading aloud. It took a moment of fierce concentration for Kent to realise that Chandler was going over the final report that would be submitted up the chain of command. He decided not to let Chandler realise he was awake and just listened to Chandler's soothing voice instead. He learned how the team had tracked him down when Llewellyn had identified the body they'd found at the Thames as Lindsey Forrest's husband and connected that with Jacob Corden's death. From there it had been a case of tracking down every property that the Corden brothers had ever had a connection with. Eventually they'd found their childhood home which had been empty for the past year. And Kent and Corden out in the garage.

He tuned the rest of it out – he didn't need to think about that again, though he did note that Buchan's theories didn't make any kind of appearance. He was too tired to wonder how much Chandler routinely left out of their team reports.

* * * * *

Three days later Kent was walking back into the office. He'd only taken off the requisite amount of time after the Krays had him attacked, he saw no reason to take any more time off now. When he arrived the only light on was the one in Chandler's office. Slowly he headed in, put on the kettle and then went to his desk. It was clear of paperwork for once. He took his coat off, laid it carefully on the back of his chair and then went over to Chandler's office.

“Tea, sir?” he asked quietly.

Chandler looked up from the desk he'd been organising in that way he had. Kent tried to remember the last time he'd copied the layout himself, and drew a blank.

“Yes, thank you.” He stared at Kent a beat too long and Kent found himself squirming; he hoped it didn't show. “It's good to have you back.”

Chandler turned back to his file and Kent knew that he wasn't going to get any more than that. Instead he returned to the boiling kettle and by the time the others poured in they each had a mug of tea and were ready to face whatever Whitechapel cared to throw at them next. He supposed it was as good an outcome as they reasonably could have expected.

Though it seemed they still had a while to go before they could bring in a killer alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Information on Burke and Hare taken from my brain
> 
> Information on the Hand of Glory taken from The Penguin Guide To The Superstitions of Britain and Ireland edited by Steve Roud pp 235-237
> 
> Information on the dead man's cure from above, pp 137-139


End file.
